


Untitled Tumblr Ficlets

by days4daisy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hannibal (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:52:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A home for Tumblr prompt ficlets and other works too short to be posted on their own. Tags and pairings will be updated as new parts are added.</p><p>New April 24, 2016:</p><p>- Chapter 9: Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel/Crowley - General Audiences

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr anon requested Crowstiel - 27 (Wearing the Other’s Sweater). I cheated on the sweater part. This ship is all about the coats *_*

“This is cold, even for you…”

“No. The coat is actually quite warm.”

Crowley has scowled many scowls over his long lifespan. But he has never scowled harder than he is at this very moment. He is shivering from rage. It has absolutely _nothing_ to do with the evening chill. But the angel has decided otherwise. Of course. The damned thing loves playing the hero.

Damned human blood. Damned Moose. Damned _feelings_. 

It has been bad enough dealing with mortal emotion. Desires, hopes, fears, bloody sentimentality. Disgusting, all of it!

No, Crowley has been foreced to bear other things too. Hunger. Weariness. And, yes, cold. But Crowley can handle these issues just fine on his own, thank you. He never asked the blasted fool to look on him with pity. 

And he certainly never asked Castiel to remove that disaster of a trench coat and drape it over his shoulders.

The coat is quite warm, though. And it feels like Castiel. Smells like Castiel. Crowley grumbles and hugs the garment tighter around his shoulders.

Castiel’s smile is just wide enough to rile Crowley’s temper. “I will murder you in your sleep,” he mutters. 

Never mind that the angel doesn’t need sleep anymore. Stolen mojo, how convenient.

His empty threat earns Castiel’s hand on his shoulder. “You’re welcome,” he says.

Crowley curses and glowers. But he keeps the coat on.

*The End*


	2. Castiel/Balthazar - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an anon request for Calthazar and forehead touches. It was an affectionate/cute prompt-meme :D Enjoy!

The battle was won, but the war rages on. Their greatest test is still to come. 

Rumors have spread of a threat against the first seal. If true, their mission will be clear: a seige on Hell, the likes of which has never been attempted. A desperate move to save one righteous man.

But today, the battle was won. 

Some have released their vessels and returned to the heavens. Castiel has not. He lies on his back and gazes at the night sky. 

He gazes. With eyes. Human vision is limited and bewildering. The stars appear so far from here. They seem small. Insignificant.

But Castiel knows the grandness of the design. How small, in truth, this body is within the full stretch of Father’s creation.

A breeze shifts through tall grasses. Castiel takes a deep breath. He tastes the wind and smells the trees. He feels the warmth of the body beside him.

Castiel rolls onto his stomach, meeting a smirk and a crinkled brow. This face belongs to just another man. Devout, yes. A work of art. But one of millions alive in this moment. So many have come before him. So many will come after.

But Castiel finds beauty in this one. There is beauty in everything his friend touches. The paintings he admires. The music he sings. The wine he drinks. He has adapted to this world much easier than Castiel has. Better than Castiel perhaps ever will.

But Castiel has learned to see the glory in these moments. He feels his vessel's smile. Is this happiness, he wonders.

“You,” Balthazar traces fingers down his arm, “are suited to this body.”

Another breeze. It caresses Balthazar’s clothes like a lover. Castiel feels a strange tightness in his chest. Is this sadness, he wonders.

He places his hands on Balthazar's shoulders. His forehead presses gently to his friend's.

Skin is so odd. It is warm. Delicate. Castiel feels Balthazar's breath against his mouth. 

A chuckle answers Castiel’s closeness. Arms wind around his waist. Hands stroll up his overcoat, tracing shoulder blades. 

Castiel hums. When he inclines his head, their noses touch.

“We should return,” Castiel says.

Balthazar chuckles again. His fingers stray to Castiel’s hair. 

Castiel finds himself reluctant to follow his own suggestion. They are so close like this. Eyes on eyes. An inch of space between their mouths.

“We should,” Balthazar agrees.

It is settled, then. They will not move.

*The End*


	3. Castiel/Dean Winchester - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destiel - 18 (Accidental Baby Acquisition) 
> 
> ACK, I angsted this way more than I should have. I owe everyone happier Destiel ;_; Takes place during 9x06.

The Rit Zien dies, and a cut hand is bandaged. Blood sigils are scrubbed away, and broken items are discarded. Castiel hopes none of them will be missed.

Nora does not return for another two hours. Castiel wearily returns to the bedroom. His wrist is sore, perhaps more than it should be? He thinks to ask Dean about this, but he decides against it. His pain is not Dean’s concern anymore. It isn’t fair that it ever was.

“Dean, you can…” ‘go,’ Castiel means to say.

His voice trails away when he steps through the open doorway. Dean sits on the rocking chair beside the crib. The baby lies, asleep, in his arms. He is murmuring something softly, rocking the small one against his chest. A small smile softens his face.

He looks up when Castiel enters and raises a finger to his lips. His smile brightens, and he mouths, ‘I’ve still got it.’ With a wink, Dean returns his attention to the child.

Castiel pauses in the doorway. It surprises him how natural Dean looks like this. Maybe it should not. He knows the love Dean has for his brother. This love manifested itself early, when they were both still young. Castiel has seen Dean's prayers and dreams, he knows how he looked after his brother when their father could not. Castiel also saw, first hand, how Dean cared for the boy Benjamin. A life Dean was forced to leave behind. Forced, in large part, by Castiel’s selfishness and greed. 

Castiel swallows back this pain. There is so much pain in this human form. So many emotions, so much regret.

“Cas?” Dean is watching him. He gently cradles the back of the child’s head. 

Castiel smiles. “You’re good with her,” he says. His voice is quiet, out of respect for the baby’s slumber. “She cried with me. The fever. Has it come down?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Acetaminophen, small dose.” He pauses a second before adding, “You didn’t know. Kids are tricky, man.”

Castiel sighs. “Humanity is tricky.“ 

He steps into the room as Dean stands carefully with the infant. Her eyelashes sit on her cheeks. So delicate, but complex, like all Father’s designs. So beautiful.

"You okay?” Dean asks.

Castiel opens his mouth with every intention of saying yes. But he stumbles. “My wrist is…” Castiel sighs. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Dean shakes his head. He does not look convinced. 

He is cautious as he lowers the baby down into the crib. His care softens Castiel's eyes. “You would make a good father, Dean,” he says.

Dean chuckles, but something makes him frown. “Nah,” he replies. “Not for me.”

Castiel nods. No man can know their future for certain, but Dean's responsibility makes him different from most. Forced optimism would only seem like pity. Dean Winchester deserves better than this. He deservesmore than he will ever know.

His expression must be strange, because when Dean looks at him he seems taken aback. Dean’s smile is curious. “What?” he asks.

Castiel feels something odd in his chest. A tug, happy and terrible. “Thank you,” he says, “for assisting me.”

Castiel wishes he could help Dean and Sam too. He wants to be worthy of returning to the bunker. Maybe Dean cannot have the family he wants, but they could…be their own family? Perhaps?

One day, Castiel assures himself. One day, he will not be the powerless, wayward angel. He will just be Castiel, and Dean will welcome him home.

“We should get that wrist braced, Cas,” Dean says. He eyes Castiel’s arm with concern.

Castiel dismisses this with a smile. “Once Nora returns.” He looks over the side of the crib. “She is beautiful,” he breathes.

“Yeah.” Only when Castiel turns, Dean is still looking at him. Strange.

*The End*


	4. Castiel/Crowley - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowstiel - 14 (Hand Holding) - *_* I have such a thing for this. 
> 
> Headcanon: these two will make out and sex each other til the cows come home. But holding hands is a big. freaking. deal.

It is an unremarkable day, pleasant and dull, in an unremarkable town. 

They sit on an unremarkable bench, watching unremarkable ducks on an unremarkable pond. Unremarkable pedestrians do unremarkable things like jog, walk pooches, and feed their unremarkable children.

Crowley is halfway through his latest unremarkable tirade. “She is in _my_ court because _I_ allow it. Yet, she takes it upon herself interrupt me with her 'ahems’ and her eye rolls. She ridicules me in front of my assembly. Degrades me as a…a chunky child, a bloody softie!”

Castiel sighs. He does not look at Crowley. He never looks at Crowley during these rambles.

“I should have tossed the bitch when she arrived. Vaporized her where she stood. Why I keep her around is beyond my comprehension. Over four hundred years I’ve thrived in her absence. Over four hundred years!”

Four hundred years is a drop of water to Castiel. He does not raise this observation.

"She is using me. I know she is, but for what? Maybe this is why I keep her. I loathe the whore with every inch of my being, but she knows how to lure me. I need to know what she wants. It would be one thing to dismiss the bitch. It would be another to _hurt_ her, to _destroy_ her as she once did me… What are you doing?“

Crowley glances at the foot of space between them. This place, once occupied by open bench, is now covered by their joined hands. Their fingers are laced together, palms pressed side by side.

"I asked you a question,” Crowley says.

Castiel draws their joined palms into his lap. His free hand drapes over Crowley's, squeezing it between both. 

Crowley stares at their hands with confusion. Castiel’s expression betrays no answers. 

The angel watches a mother duck and her ducklings course across the green-tint water. A ripple follows their parade. Castiel smiles.

Crowley frowns. “We are in public,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Anyone can see!" 

"Yes,” Castiel repeats.

Crowley is too dumbfounded for anger. He gapes at the bird, then at their linked hands again.

Finally, he slumps against the back of the bench. Castiel keeps the hand between his, stroking slow lines into his skin.

Crowley knows he cannot trust this gesture. It is false emotion, caused by the weakening of Castiel’s stolen grace. But he squeezes Castiel’s fingers, all the same. 

He looks out at the pond, sunlight off the surface. Insignificant puddle. The water is not even clean.

Crowley peeks again at his hand between Castiel’s. An unremarkable gesture from an unremarkable dying angel.

He turns away before Castiel can see his smile.

*The End*


	5. Hannibal/Will Graham - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Hannibal Season 3, Episode 6: "Dolce." Heavy spoilers for that episode.
> 
> This one wasn't written for a Tumblr prompt, but it was inspired by 3x06 reactions on my dash :D
> 
> Warnings: dubcon, show-typical cannibalism talk, blowjobs

Will squeezes his hands. The knuckles curl, nail edges tickling his palms. 

An empty plate sits in front of him. White china rimmed in gold. The soup was moved to the kitchen. ...Marinade, more like. A spiced medley to soak the organs.

What will Hannibal cook first? His liver? His heart? 

A leather strap binds Will to his chair. Without the constraint, fleeing would still be difficult. The world is slower than it should be, a symptom of the drugs. Around Will, the room is a wash of somber tones. Only the pristine plate sticks out. Stark white, too clean. 

Hannibal kneels beneath the table. “Isn’t it strange to wait there?” Will asks. 

His host replies from between his feet. “Define ‘strange.’”

“Your trap is set too well.” A bitter smile. “Jack will join us, whether you hide or not.”

“Jack owns the burden of locating us,” Hannibal points out. “The least I can do is give him my best.”

“Your best involves sitting under a table?”

“My best means keeping Jack on his toes.” 

The choice of words makes Will scoff. His pulse throbs, slow and heavy. Will this lethargy make the meat taste better, Will wonders? Induced calm to keep the flesh tender?

“Will you take a toe while you’re down there, Hannibal?” Will asks. “Or a foot? Why wait for Jack?”

“That would be rude, Will. We both owe Jack more, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hannibal’s words say one thing, but his hands say another. He unzips Will’s new slacks and untucks his new shirt. Reaches past new boxer shorts and draws Will out in one smooth motion.

Will sighs. “Of course you take that.” 

Hannibal tsks. “'Take’ is a violent word. A sample, that’s all.” His fingers move up the shaft.

Will’s head lolls to the side. The world tilts. “Your sedative is too good, if this is what you want.”

“What do you think I want?” Hannibal asks. “I am you, after all.” His thumb drags across the slit. 

Will sighs again, chin sinking to his chest. “You want to check a box on your list of curiosities.”

He hears Hannibal’s smile without seeing his face. “You think very little of me, Will.”

“No,” Will disagrees. He is interrupted by Hannibal’s mouth around his cock head. A suckle on a half-hard shaft. “I think everything of you,” he whispers.

“Hm.” It is not clear whether the hum is for Will’s flavor or his words. 

Will feels dizzier than before. Is he dreaming or awake? His pleasure is a vague warmth between his legs.

“One could interpret that to mean you think _only_ of me.”

Will smiles. “What do you think about, Hannibal?”

“I think of art,” Hannibal replies. “The senses. Sky. Earth. And I do think of you, Will.”

Will’s mouth curls in a grimace. “My…God-like forgiveness?”

Hannibal’s eyes appear to him beneath the table. Sharp like knives. “We all forgive in our own ways,” he says. "Love is also like this."

Will turns his wrists, a painfully labored process. His fingers move like snails, reaching through table shadow for skin. Hannibal’s face does not feel real to his touch. 

His mouth slides around Will’s shaft again. “How do I taste?” Will asks. His voice breaks.

Hannibal chuckles between his thighs. “Divine,” he replies.

*The End*


	6. Castiel/Crowley - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a Tumblr fluff meme - Crowstiel + Post-No-Good-Very-Bad-Day Cuddles. 
> 
> Clearly an excuse for grumpy Crowley, I'm always here for this ;) Takes place during Season 10, between Rowena's introduction and The Executioner's Song.

It has been a grumble-worthy day, and the muttering continues long into the night. 

Crowley takes to his Bermudan villa. The sway of low tide should provide a measure of comfort, but he remains riled. Nothing about this blasted rock seems to bring Crowley cheer these days. It’s all a reminder of the bloody dictator who allows some men to waltz past pearly gates and others to be tortured into unrecognizable creatures.

Crowley’s persona is a heartfelt ‘fuck you’ to the man upstairs. He may be a ruthless, crass, sadistic monster, but he is a gentleman about it! Even with his own fate written in the stars, Crowley revels in what his existence represents to the almighty creator.

But some days, his image cracks under memories of who he was. Not who he built himself to be, not Crowley. 

Fergus McLeod, the boy without love.

His mother - his infernal mother! Why now? Why this constant, nagging reminder of what he was? She is aggravating. Persistent!

And she weakens him. Terribly.

It is this weakness that Crowley despises. Not his past, which he cannot change. Not his present, which he rather enjoys. Or his future, which is certain and, therefore, not worth his concern. No, it is that Crowley - the demon-king - can still be hurt by this witch. An emotionless creature, craving love. Utter embarrassment!

“If you will not assist me in finding Cain, I will be forced to seek information by any means nece-”

This villa does not have a proper door for slamming, pity. Sliding the bedroom’s separator in the half-dead angel’s face just does not have the same dramatic effect.

Crowley snaps his fingers, his trademark black suit and tie replaced by a cotton black shirt and pants. He will pay no mind to wrinkling these garments. 

Crowley climbs onto his bed and stares past his window to the blue waters of the ocean, the gentle glide of waves onto sugary-sand beaches. 

A fucking ruse. Funny how demon kind is slandered and despised. Yet, who is a greater sadist than God himself? 

Crowley snorts and closes his eyes. Ah, if only he could sleep. But he cannot. 

So he is wide awake when his bedroom door slides open. He hears an overcoat being shed. Suit and tie removed. 

Castiel climbs into bed beside him. He fits himself to Crowley’s back, arm around his waist. Crowley growls his warning. But Castiel has always been equal parts persistent and stupid. He flattens his hand against Crowley’s stomach. Crowley feels slow breaths down the back of his neck.

“I am _not_ the little spoon in this relationship,” Crowley grouses. He glares purposefully over his shoulder.

Castiel tilts his head. “You are not a utensil.” The idiot sounds so sincere, Crowley will not bother correcting him. 

But he is not ready to abandon his bad mood. “Did the door slam not make it clear that I’d like to be alone?”

“It is a sliding door,” Castiel points out. “More of a click than a slam-”

“I will not help you find Cain,” Crowley mutters. “Torture and kill if you must, I’m sure you will be forgiven as you always are.” Castiel frowns far too thoughtfully. Crowley scowls. “I will not help you,” he insists. “You’re wasting your time.”

Castiel examines him for a moment, mouth tight. Then, he tucks his face against Crowley’s hair. 

Crowley’s mouth curls back in a snarl. “Castiel.”

The hand on his stomach slides up to drape over his chest. Fingers drum over the hollow place where a human heart would be. 

Crowley is not fast enough to bite back his instinctive response. He stiffens as if salt has just been twisted into a bloody gash. “Castiel-”

“Something is wrong, Crowley.” He feels an unsteady exhale against the back of his neck.

Oh, Crowley knows this ploy. He can tell when he’s being baited, but he will not fall for it this time. 'Something is wrong, Crowley. I require your assistance.' Toying with the human blood festering inside.

“What?” Crowley grumbles.

“I…care about your pain. I know what you are, and who you are. But your pain matters to me.”

Actually, this is a new game. Crowley expected Castiel to play off Crowley’s disgusting sentimentality. Say his fever has returned, or his coughs. Dangle his weakness over Crowley like a carrot.

Crowley turns under his arm to face him directly. “You care about my pain?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

Crowley cocks his head. “You. Care about my pain. Mine.”

Castiel sighs. “Yes.” With a sour look, he adds, “I don’t like it either.”

Crowley raises a brow. “And lying with me was your brilliant plan to alleviate this pain.” It’s in his nature to mock, but he is honestly interested in the answer.

Castiel rolls onto his back with a grunt. “Forget it,” he mutters.

“No.” Crowley presses fingers to the angel’s jaw, forcing him to turn and face him. Castiel does not appreciate the direction, if his scowl is any indication. “I won’t forget it, Cas,” Crowley says.

Castiel grits his teeth and glares into Crowley’s eyes. From this proximity, Crowley can see the little twinkle of grace inside him. A web of blue light, slowly collapsing on itself.

“I sensed that you wanted me to stay,” Castiel forces out. “That loneliness was the cause of your pain.” He glowers, saving face. “If I was mistaken, I will show myself out.” He sits up to go. 

Crowley takes one of his hands and winds it with his own. Fingers tied to fingers, Castiel’s skin scarred and knuckles bruised. Such trifles, these injuries. Little things that the angel will not burn his waning grace on. 

Crowley chuckles. “And if I refuse you, angel? Who will you seek next, so _you_ are not alone?”

Castiel recoils as if burned. Right on the mark, then. 

Crowley knows to tighten his grip on Castiel’s hand. It stops Castiel from jumping back and immediately leaving this place. Though, given the current state of his grace, Crowley is not sure how the bird would manage to retreat without assistance. Book a flight? Swim, perhaps?

A measure of weakness is required now for Crowley to get what he wants. “You will never admit it to yourself,” Crowley murmurs, “but we are more alike than you think, you and me.” Castiel’s eyes narrow. Crowley lies back down, Castiel’s hand still in his. “Come,” he says. “Lie down.” He puts the odds at 50/50 that Castiel will agree. 

On better judgment, Crowley turns his back as he was before. He pulls Castiel’s arm with him, guiding his hand back to his chest. He allows it to resume its previous position, pressed to his non-existent heart.

He hears Castiel sigh behind him. Then, a rustling of sheets and the creak of bed springs.

Castiel fits against him as before. Face in his hair. Chest to his back. After a moment, his leg returns as well, moving between Crowley’s, lacing together comfortably.

Crowley looks out at the moon reflecting off the ocean surface. Silver and blue, contrast against a black sky. False beauty. All of it. 

He closes his eyes and brings Castiel’s hand to his mouth. Kisses touch each meaningless knuckle-bruise. Disgusting, this vulnerability. Dangerous weakness.

But what does it matter? They are not God. Their fates are sealed either way.

*The End*


	7. Castiel/Dean Winchester - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a Tumblr fluff ficlet meme - Destiel + Sharing Ice Cream. So cute, I literally can't *_*

They saved people, they hunted things. There’s only one way to celebrate - pie!

Well, usually pie. But Dean’s eye caught the line outside a stand on the boardwalk. Nancy’s Homemade Ice Cream. Homemade-Anything tends to perk Dean up. Homemade-Sweet-Thing, well that’s the cherry on the sundae he fully intends to scarf down.

Sam doesn’t want to join, because Sam is insane. “It’s _homemade ice cream_ , Sam,” Dean argues. “Put the Weight Watches on hold for a day.”

“You’ve always been more of a fan,” Sam says. He smiles. “Hey, you should take Cas. Get out just the two of you, you know?”

There are multiple things Dean doesn’t like about this suggestion. “First of all, Cas is a freaking machine. He can’t even taste ice cream-”

“He likes coffee,” Sam points out. “Maybe they’ll have coffee flavored, you never know.”

Dean raises a finger, because he’s not done and he doesn’t care. “Second - get out just the two of us? Really, Sam?”

Sam sighs. “Look, I get it. It’s weird. I’m not saying dinner and a movie-”

“Jesus, Sam-”

“Just, I don’t know.” Sam shrugs. “It’d be nice for him.”

“Great. It’d be _nice_.“

Cas picks picks this unfortunate moment to return to the motel room. He blinks when Dean claps an arm on his shoulder and pulls him back towards the door. "C'mon, Cas. Sammy thinks it’d be _nice_ if we go out and do stuff.”

Cas’ eyes narrow suspiciously. “What kind of stuff?”

Dean slams the door behind them before Sam can hear his answer.

Yeah ok, Dean gets where Sam is coming from. The after-hours stuff is good - like, really good. But there's more to him and Cas than that. Even if this thing goes nowhere, Cas will always be family to him. 

That’s why it’s so weird! Cas is the Angel of God who raised him out of Hell, who stood with him against the Apocalypse! How the hell do you take a soldier of Heaven on a date?

Cas examines the ice cream line curiously. “There are a lot of children here,” he remarks.

“Only as old as you feel, Cas,” Dean says. He claps the angel on the back.

Cas tilts his head. “That’s…not true, Dean,” he observes. “Time cannot be dictated by emotion-”

“I like ice cream, and you will like ice cream.” Dean gives him a pointed look. “I don’t care if you’re fifty billion years old.”

Cas glares. Apparently, the 'fifty billion years old’ guess was a bit of a reach. But it's all right, because Cas gets that little annoyed wrinkle between his brows. Dean…fuck, he thinks it’s adorable. 

“In any event, you should not waste your money, Dean,” Cas says. “Food is not pleasant for me. I taste the sum of parts, not the intended human flavor.”

Dean raises an amused brow. “Who said I was paying? What, you think this is a date or something?”

Cas actually looks flustered. He mumbles an apology and looks away. 

Dean chuckles to himself. He is so fucking gone for this guy. If they weren’t next in line, Dean would drag Cas out of here and share some other stuff with him, way better than ice cream. 

Huh. Share. “Tell you what. I'll go with the double scoop, and you can try some of mine?” Dean puts on his best smile. “Come on, Cas. You know you want some. Come on.” 

Cas sighs, but Dean can tell he’s breaking through. A smile has returned to his face. 

Dean squints at the menu board. He grins. “Cas…they’ve got coffee flavored.”

Cas peers at the menu as well. He finally relents with a chuckle. “Yes, Dean.”

The double-scoop is more like quadruple. Dean eyes the monstrosity of a waffle cone like a lion with a steak. “Oh my God-”

“Do not blaspheme,” Cas says. But his wide eyes are also on the cone. “Coffee beans.”

The area around the stand is crowded, so Dean leads the way back to the boardwalk. There’s a free bench, and he plops himself down, smiling when Cas sits next to him without any prompting. 

One thing that hasn’t needed adjusting - Cas always sucked at personal space. Now that they’re doing whatever, it hasn’t been an adjustment. Cas still squishes up next to him, knee on knee, thigh on thigh. He turns to watch Dean like he’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Dean used to be bugged to hell by this. Now, he finds himself clearing his throat, a little embarrassed and a lot happy. “All right, then. Bottom’s up.” He gathers up a nice tongue full of ice cream and sinks back, giving a thorough taste.

It. Is. Freaking. Awesome.

Dean closes his eyes, savoring everything. Waves on the beach. Sun on his face. Cool sweetness on his tongue. Hot angel sitting next to him. 

“Well?” Cas prompts.

Dean grins and holds the cone out. “No spoilers,” he says. “Try it.”

Cas takes the cone, examining it closely. “Cas!” Dean presses. “The suspense, man.”

Cas frowns at him, then holds the ice cream to his lips. He opens his mouth and tries to mimic Dean, dragging his tongue up a side of the ice cream. He closes his eyes and tilts his head thoughtfully.

But, unlike Dean, he shoots back up, eyes jumping open. “Sweet,” Cas says. “And cold. But still…it still tastes like coffee. I can taste it, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean finds himself smiling at the excitement. “Pretty good choice, if I do say so myself.”

Cas looks at the cone, then at Dean again. “Do you mind if I…” His voice trails off.

Dean chuckles. “I got it to share, ya nerd.” Yup. Calling an Angel of the Lord a nerd. Brownie points upstairs, no doubt.

Cas smiles and takes another lick. This time, he hums with pleasure when he tastes it. His blue eyes are unnaturally bright when he looks at Dean again. Thankful for the experience. Happy to be sharing it.

Dean gives the collar of his trench coat a little tug. 

Sammy was right. Best idea ever. Dean will never tell him though.

*The End*


	8. Castiel/Crowley - General Audiences (AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt for Castiel/Crowley - Boss/Intern AU :)

Crowley stretches in his office chair. Genuine leather, surrounded on three sides by windows on the 31st floor. It's a grand view of the New York skyline. 

A corner office only matters so much at crunch time, though. Day is now night, and Crowley only has his laptop screen and desk lamp for company.

Oh yes, and the intern who appears in the doorway. He has a stack of papers in his arms. They’re not even lined up, edges jutting all over. As big a mess as his wrinkled, flimsy shirt. Sears, at best. The hem dangles loose under his atrocious striped tie. 

“Your plans, Mr. Crowley.” The intern places the mess of pages on Crowley’s desk. Right on top of the files he was working on.

Crowley scowls and tries to make some order of the clutter. “Just ‘Crowley.’ I’ve told you a thousand times-“ 

"Yes, I know.” The intern sounds sheepish. But he still hovers, watching Crowley sort blueprints and budget figures. 

“Why the hell are you still here?” Crowley eyes him. “I’m not paying overtime. Straight time if you’re working, and _this_ disaster does not count as work-” 

“You said I could research off-hours, Mr. Crowley.” Crowley hisses outright. The intern frowns. “If you’d like to be alone-”

“No, no,” Crowley waves him off. “This is what we’re supposed to encourage, isn’t it? Ambition and whatnot?” 

He snorts. What he wouldn’t have given for an internship like this back in the day. They didn’t pay interns back then, didn’t even give much in the way of recommendations. 

This intern is not much younger than Crowley is. Castiel Novak. Terrible name, but memorable. Crowley can’t keep the flock of intern-babies straight this year. Too many Johns and Susans - gods, _why_ so many Susans?

Castiel is a late lifer. Failed out of some other career, probably. Crowley hasn’t asked. He doesn’t particularly care, all he wants is straight copies! Which, apparently, is too much to ask of an intern vying for a permanent job at one of the top architecture firms in the U.S. 

“Do you need anything else, sir?” 

Crowley glares. “If you call me anything other than ‘Crowley’ again, you’re fired. Do you understand?” 

Crowley expects the threat to unnerve Castiel. But he smiles, damn thing. As if Crowley’s frustration amuses him! 

"Yes…Crowley.“ Castiel retreats from the office before Crowley can properly berate him. No wonder Crowley never gets any work done. He grumbles and makes a noisy show of sorting his papers into a proper stack. 

Crowley flips through the figures. The intern can’t work a copy machine for shit, but the calculations look correct. 

He slides his glasses on and sits down with a huff. A quick glance at his screen shows 8:30pm. There’s still much to be done. "Castiel!” he barks. “Go home!”

“No, sir.” Castiel is being an ass on purpose now. The temptation to fire him grows.

Instead, Crowley shouts, “Get us something to eat then!” 

Castiel appears in the doorway. Crowley is already fishing for his wallet. “Wok n’ Roll again?” Castiel asks. 

“Ugh, dumplings just about split me open last time. Vincenzo’s. Large.” Crowley flips his credit card out. 

Castiel takes it. “Meat Lover’s?” 

“You have your moments,” Crowley mumbles, turning back to his work. Castiel leaves.

He’s just retreated when Crowley thinks to add, “Don’t you over-tip again. It’s a five minute walk. Two dollars. That’s it.”

“Yes, Mr. Crowley.” 

Crowley mutters to himself and flips into another folder. 

It’s 9:00pm when the pizza arrives. 

9:30pm by the time ¾ of it is gone. 

9:45pm when Crowley wins their argument, and Castiel agrees to save the rest for lunch tomorrow. “Look at you. Loans out the rear, no doubt. What do you eat!?”

“Food,” Castiel supplies helpfully. He is the worst hire this firm has ever made.

Crowley scowls his way back to his office. “Go home, Castiel!” 

“I’m leaving.” Castiel doesn’t leave. 

11:00pm, the blueprints begin to blur. Crowley rubs his eyes wearily.

11:30pm, Crowley stops reading altogether. 

He wanders out of his office. Cubicles stretch across the open floor. The elevators sit silent in the back. 

Castiel’s desk is the closest to Crowley’s office. A little desk lamp is lit. Here, Castiel works, hunched over…something. A drawing. Blueprints. 

Crowley helps himself to the space, leaning on Castiel’s desk. Castiel looks up at him questioningly, but Crowley is too busy with the blueprints. They’re complex. Measured down to the most minute detail. Scope notes in the margins, a folder of budget calcuations open above the plans.

“It’s a concept I’m designing,” Castiel says. He sounds embarrassed.

“These are good.” Crowley tilts his head. “These are very good.” 

Castiel smiles, eyes crinkling their appreciation. “Thank you,” he says. “Are you on your way out? You look tired, sir.”

Crowley should fire him for using 'sir’ again. But he chuckles instead. “This is what happens when you get old, Castiel.” 

“You’re not old,” Castiel says. 

“Older than you,” Crowley contends. “Means I have seniority and bitching rights.”

Castiel closes the folder on his desk. As he stands, he clutches the mess of papers to his chest. “I’ll walk out with you, sir.” 

“Crowley,” Crowley corrects. He snatches Castiel’s files and tucks his papers into a clean stack. "Organization, Castiel. What's the point of brilliance if you can’t keep track of it?“ It takes a few minutes, but Crowley shifts the pages into a more manageable pile. 

When he hands the work back, Castiel’s expression surprises him - soft eyes and a faint smile. "What?” Crowley asks. 

Castiel shakes his head. “Nothing. Thank you, Crowley.” Ah, success finally. 

Crowley locks the door to his office. The two make their way to the elevators, side by side. “I’d like to hear more about this project,” Crowley says.

“Yes. Thank you. That would mean…everything, really.” Castiel shrugs, but Crowley sees the anxious clench of his jaw. “I can come in early, or-” 

“Tomorrow night, after work. How’s that sound?” 

Castiel freezes mid-step. Did Crowley cross the line? 

But then...he meant to cross it, didn’t he? Damn it. Who found this intern anyway? Had to be Cecily. She has…criteria. 

“There isn’t usually an 'after work,’” Castiel points out. He’s quite right. The city never sleeps, nor does the demand for more buildings to sleep in. Tonight’s late hour is proof. 

“There will be tomorrow,” Crowley assures him.

Castiel’s ridiculously blue eyes widen. He nods. And smiles - an odd, intrigued smile. Crowley hears a warning bell in the dark recesses of his chest. What’s the harm in a bit of flirtation, though? It’s not as if it will go anywhere. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says. 

Crowley presses the 'down’ button and lays his hand on the open door. “After you.” 

*The End*


	9. Good Omens: Crowley/Aziraphale - General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little coda to _Good Omens_. I finally read it after many wonderful recommendations and loved it as much as I hoped I would :)

INEFFABLE, said a tall figure feeding the ducks.

"Yeah. Right. Thanks." Crowley paused. "What was I saying?"

"Don't know," said Aziraphale. "Nothing very important, I think."

They went to the Ritz again. A table was vacant. It was, oddly, a very good table. In the back room, beside floor-to-ceiling windows facing the courtyard. Gold curtains framed the glass like an ornate theatre stage. 

Aziraphale presumed Crowley's influence was to thank for the open table. Crowley assumed it was the angel, and marveled. Aziraphale usually did not condone miracles for fine dining. It made a mockery of the whole system, he claimed. 

Still, Crowley was not about to complain. "A calm before the next storm, you think?" he wondered.

Aziraphale offered the question his standard measure of concern. "Perhaps just calm for once?" he said. "If it isn't an Apocalypse, it's another war, isn't it? An economic collapse. Or drought. Crop failure, famine-"

"Never liked that guy," Crowley inserted helpfully.

"Perhaps just calm for once," the angel repeated.

Demons were not accustomed to peace. It went against the nature of their existence. Still, a reprieve - though far-fetched - was a welcome notion to Crowley. "Mm," he agreed.

The afternoon was clear but mild. Fitting day for a stroll, neither cold nor warm. A patch of sunlight nibbled at the glass, finding its way to the edge of their table. Conveniently, it highlighted the demon's hand stretched just past his polite arrangement of forks. Crowley always sat like this. His hand formed a bridge between Good and Evil, one might say.* 

* If one were prone to broad metaphors. But then, one risked being labeled a pretentious goob.

Aziraphale enjoyed the Ritz. It was a celebration of the best of man's idealism, fine linens blanketed by a painted sky. The ceiling of clouds drew the angel's eyes as sunlight danced between the glass panes.

"On the house," offered the sommelier; a thin man with a mustache and round glasses.

"I'm sure," muttered Crowley. He was not opposed to free things, but they raised his suspicions. His wine palate was decidedly _not_ cheap. "I think we would rather- Wait, is this-"

"Brunello di Montalcino, reserve." The sommelier looked concerned. 

The demon appraised the bottle. "1985 ... on the house, you said?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale chided. A 1985 reserve was extravagance beyond the occasion! Of course, they _had_ just averted the Apocalypse. By being utterly incompetent, to be fair. But even incompetence had to be part of the Plan, didn't it?

When their gazes met, Aziraphale's admonishment became worry. Crowley had not orchestrated the gift wine, surprise evident even behind his staple sunglasses.

"Thank you," the angel mumbled. The sommelier blanched. "We're delighted." The gentleman left, looking awfully confused. He forgot to pour. Crowley hastily filled their glasses before the man came to his senses. 

The wine had a rich red color. Something like love, Aziraphale mused with a sigh. He frowned. Where had that thought come from?

"Heh," Crowley breathed, a touch nervous. "What's next? A nightingale singing in Berkeley Square?"

There _was_ a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square. Neither heard it. The airwaves were ablaze with People Talk about People Things. People who had narrowly avoided oblivion and did not even know it.*

* For the most part. A small contingent was still trying to figure out where the heck Atlantis disappeared to.

Aziraphale patted Crowley's hand in a show of camaraderie. And left it there.

Crowley eyed their joined hands. So did Aziraphale. "Hm," Crowley said. His fingers were long and cold, the angel's pudgy and warm.*

* At the kitchen entrance, a cook slapped his lost bet into the hand of a grinning hostess.  
"Knew it!" beamed the hostess.  
"'bout time," muttered the cook.

The angel ordered the salmon with fennel and radish. For Crowley, Aziraphale ordered sea bass with a pumpkin sauce. Crowley's mouth hung open, silence in the space where his order should have been.

"I wanted the lamb," Crowley said, after the mystified waitress departed.

"I know you did," replied Aziraphale. He linked his fingers with the demon's. Crowley regarded him doubtfully.

Moments later, Aziraphale startled at a shoe rubbing the inside of his leg.

"Sorry," Crowley shrugged. "Short table, isn't it?"

"I suppose." Aziraphale sounded unsure.

When the shoe returned, the angel did not jump. It traced up Aziraphale's trousers to plant on the chair between his knees. Aziraphale kindly shifted them apart. Crowley flicked his forked tongue in a show of gratitude.

"Think this good fortune will yield a complimentary souffle?" Crowley wondered. Demons were quite the connoisseurs of dessert. He nor Aziraphale could remember which side invented the concept.

"I thought," the angel tilted his head, "we might go back to my place for dessert?"

Crowley arched a brow with a casualness he did not feel. "Er, yes," he mumbled. "Do you still have that tea I like?"

"Even better." The angel smiled. "I have your favorite port."

"Ah. Well. In that case." Crowley's foot twitched anxiously between the angel's knees. Aziraphale's smile grew.

In Berkeley Square, the nightingale hit its high note. A tall figure nodded and continued on his way.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
